


Amnesty

by gruellingcruel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Armitage Hux Has Issues, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Background Reylo, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Order Politics (Star Wars), Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gratuitous Hand-Holding, I Hate The Canon So Much I Wrote A Fic In Rage, Light Angst, M/M, POV Armitage Hux, POV Poe Dameron, Post-Canon Fix-It, Protective Poe Dameron, Reboot Of My Own Fic, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Touch-Starved Armitage Hux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gruellingcruel/pseuds/gruellingcruel
Summary: When Poe Dameron abducted him from the Steadfast, Hux had imagined the start of a countdown towards his inevitable execution. He’d decided that, if he was to die, then he may as well assist the Resistance further, and try to take as many of the people who’d destroyed his First Order down with him as possible. Over the cursed planet of Exegol, he’d urged his true comrades to turn against the old Imperials from within, a command he’d expected to be mostly ignored.Only, it had worked, to a frankly worrying degree.He hadn't expected to make it out of the battle alive, and he had certainly not expected to be granted amnesty by the rebels. Now here he is, living on the Resistance base with a handful of his men, feeling disconnected from the man he once was. From the man whose life he himself had put a torch to.
Relationships: Poe Dameron & Armitage Hux, Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. The Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> If you read the first, one-shot version of Amnesty, thank you! The support inspired me to write more for the story, but I realised I needed to make a few changes and add a scene to be able to move the narrative forward. 
> 
> So here's Amnesty 2: Electric Boogaloo!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage Hux is exposed to the terrifying concept of mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with 100% more BB8!

♢

I'll wait a little longer

While we are getting stronger

I know it's taking the time to heal

♢

Hux jumps out of his skin when the door to his room slides open, apparently of its own volition. The whirring and beeping that follow, however, tells him all he needs to know.

Dameron’s astromech has just burst into his room uninvited, has overrode the lock, even. 

He turns in his seat and fixes it with a withering stare, “Your manners are even worse than your master’s.” The droid just continues to roll back and forth and gives him a rude little beep in response, Hux is about to reprimand it further when he hears Dameron call out. 

“BB8! You better not have just busted in there!” He appears suddenly, with a grimace, his hand on the doorframe, “Sorry, Hux, he gets a little over-excited sometimes,” He explains lamely, then places his hands on his hips, “Apologise BB8! It’s super rude to just invade someone's space like that!” 

Hux bites back a: _Goodness, wherever could it get it from?_

In response, the little droid gives a long, trilling beep as it rolls from the room that Hux thinks sounds almost sarcastic. He’s momentarily surprised that that is even possible, but then remembers this is Dameron’s droid. So he just raises an eyebrow in response and turns back to his desk, picking up his datapad, hoping Dameron will take the hint.

“So, you hiding from all the excitement?”

Hux sighs deeply, and pointedly keeps his eyes on the datapad. 

He _had_ hoped to hole up in the relative safety of his room, away from the revelry of the base in the wake of their success at Exegol. Or rather, the week's anniversary of their success. 

There had been some celebrating right away, of course, and in the days that followed, but laced with an undercurrent of mourning. And so, Dameron had decided today was the day for the “official” party, apparently eager to raise morale. He was also probably trying to appease his people for his decision to infect their base with members of the First Order. 

He’d even gone so far as to announce the celebration over the base-wide intercom that morning, cheerily crowing about how that evening he wanted to see _everyone_ enjoy themselves, _“...and that’s an order!”_

Utterly ridiculous. Hux had avoided all the other festivities, had kept to himself, and he wasn’t about to change that. 

“I thought my time would be better spent actually getting some work done, since I imagine at least half the base will be out of commission tomorrow.” Hux snaps in a clipped tone. He hears Dameron laugh and he wishes he’d just ignored the man, since he seems to see this as an invitation to strut right in and lean back against the desk. 

Hux keeps his eyes on the device between his hands, refusing to give Dameron the attention he so obviously wants. 

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Hugs. You and I both know there’s nothing you really need to be doing on that datapad.” Dameron drawls, his tone teasing. Hux bristles at this, he doesn’t appreciate being reminded of his uselessness. 

But it is true, he'd just been reading and re-reading the communications of the offered amnesty to the remnants of the scattered First Order, providing their cooperation with the Resistance. To those who’d not already mutinied and subsequently been absorbed into the rest of the rag-tag group that faced off against the “Final Order” at Exegol, those who currently reside here at the Resistance base, like himself. 

To whom Dameron and his co-general Finn have apparently _already_ granted amnesty; Hux clearly has to be missing something. 

Dameron shifts against the desk, leaning, braced on his hands, and crosses one ankle over the other, “I know you’ve been trying to avoid hanging out with us, but it’s _your win_ too, buddy, so come join in. You gotta loosen up sometimes, join the party! Have a little fun!” And with that Dameron plucks the datapad right out of his hands.

He does look up at the man, then, somehow still shocked by his boldness, “...Loosen up?”

Dameron’s forehead crinkles between the eyes and he waves the datapad around in the air, “Ah, you know- like _relax_? Have a drink? Maybe-” 

“I’m well aware of the _meaning of the phrase,_ Dameron! What I’m _surprised_ by is that you seem to want me strutting about your base getting drunk like-” He takes in a shaky breath to calm himself, hands clenching and unclenching atop the table, “Like I’m not a prisoner here.” 

Dameron frowns and the teasing twinkle in his eye is replaced with something that Hux thinks he likes even less, “But, you’re not?” 

Hux scoffs, the datapad in Dameron’s hand hangs limply as he stares so Hux snatches it back and places it on the table gently. 

Dameron immediately sets his hand atop one of Hux’s that still rests there on the datapad, he almost jerks at the unexpected touch. “Hux, I need you to understand you’re _not_ a prisoner here, alright? Or any of the First Order defectors on base, without you guys we could have lost everything at Exegol. Without _you_ convincing who you could amongst the First Order to turn against the old Imperials, I-” He shakes his head and his grip tightens slightly. 

“We’re on the same side.” Dameron urges with something that strays too close to conviction. 

Hux tears his gaze from where that calloused hand clasps his own. He looks into the other man's eyes and sees that, yes, Poe Dameron believes that nonsense he just uttered with his whole heart. It’s almost unbelievable. 

But Dameron’s eyes are unrelenting, deep and empathetic, urging Hux to trust him. He feels speared, something inside him is struck, he needs to look away but can’t. 

He swallows shakily and decides he would rather be literally anywhere else at the moment so he abruptly stands, Dameron releases his hand in surprise, and Hux tries to stifle the sensation of loss. Dameron stays leaning there, relaxed against the table, ankles still crossed, unprepared for an attack, like he thinks Hux is no danger to him at all; he’s simply looking up at him, expectantly, waiting for Hux to speak.

It irritates him to no end, so he sneers and says, “Come on then, I suppose this morning you did _order_ me to enjoy myself.”

The tension broken, Dameron barks out a laugh and rocks to his feet easily. “I knew you’d appreciate the out.” He’s grinning at Hux, all perfect teeth and twinkling eyes and Hux briefly considers pushing him over, but that would be childish so he just crosses his arms and turns away.

“Oh, you’re sooo snooty!” Dameron sounds delighted as he eases past towards the door. Hux stands there, dumbfounded. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to being spoken to so casually. 

Dameron turns his head and looks at him out of one eye, mouth curled softly like he’s got exactly what he wanted. “You know, I’m not going to let you run off until I see at least - hmm, lets see-” He turns and puts one hand on his hip and the other to his chin, as if he’s deep in thought, then suddenly raises three digits with a flourish, “Three smiles that aren't born from seeing something get blown up, or brought about from the suffering of others!” He announces with a grin and a wink. 

Hux rolls his eyes and keeps his arms crossed, but some traitorous part of him - so all of him, then, he supposes - let's one side of his lip twitch tentatively upward. He feels oddly light inside, and unsure, unfamiliar as he is to this sort of carefree and non-threatening attention. 

He wants to ask how Dameron could possibly seriously consider letting what’s left of the First Order go free, but then he’d probably say something stupid like: _“Oh, Hugs, if you truly love something you have to be willing to let it go!”_ And bat those ridiculous eyelashes. 

Dameron cocks his head and holds his hand out, eyes excited and still grinning, but wider, “That little thing only counts as half I’m afraid,” He says. “Now, hurry,” He bobs his hand up and down, “We gotta join the party before everyone gets too drunk and the singing starts.” 

Hux looks away from the outstretched hand and makes a face at the mention of singing, which draws a small laugh from Dameron, but he still uncrosses his arms and takes the hand. Dameron almost seems startled, his eyebrows betraying his surprise, which confuses Hux slightly. Why offer the hand if he didn’t expect him to take it?

Hux lets their clasped hands fall between them as he steps level with the man, Dameron seems captivated, staring down at where they touch. Hux is certain he’s never felt more _uncertain_ in his life; he’d had to forgo wearing his gloves due to the stifling heat and humidity of the planet, and the feel of another’s skin on his is as foreign to him as the concept of holding hands itself. 

He wonders if this is an unremarkable phenomenon on the rebel base, or if he’s just trod over a boundary he couldn’t even see. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Dameron looks back to his face and for a beat looks almost contemplative, his eyes searching Hux’s own. He must like whatever he finds there, as his eyes soften and a gentle smile springs to life. It’s an expression that Hux hasn’t received from him before, more familiar with the grin or the smirk, but he thinks that he may just prefer it. 

Dameron gives their hands a little squeeze and Hux finds himself squeezing back, just to anchor himself, of course. 

Suddenly, Dameron is leading him through the door and yelling: “Two of your generals, coming through!” Hux nearly gasps and feels himself turning red, “One's really crabby and needs a beer! The other just likes to party, so he wants a beer too!” His heart is near hammering with mortification, but he soon realises that there's no one in the hallway to hear at all. 

Everyone on base must already be outside. 

Hux looks down at the floor, watching his step as they stride down the long hallway, “I’m not sure I can be considered a general anymore, you know.” 

“I think your men might disagree with you there, Hugs.” 

He can think of nothing to say in response, so he simply shakes his head. 

Dameron releases his hand as they exit the building into the balmy evening air. The exterior extension of the mess hall is teeming with people, the duracrete peppered with tables and chairs, the shutters into the interior raised high and decorated with colourful flag bunting and lanterns. 

Hux would be grateful for Dameron's discretion regarding public hand-holding if he wasn’t overwhelmed by what he sees. 

Resistance and First Order alike, human and alien, all mingling and laughing together tentatively, but with real smiles and easy body language. Out of uniform his comrades are almost indistinguishable from the rest, if not for his eye being drawn to their familiar faces he might have dismissed them as unremarkable rebels. 

He is stunned, and feels his heart constrict, confused, something like hope flickering to life inside. 

Dameron has stopped to look at him, eerily silent, perhaps eager to see his reaction in order to stroke his own ego, or maybe just to give him a moment to take it all in. 

“You good?” he says gently, quietly. 

Hux looks around at his people and for the first time in a while, or perhaps his entire life, can say he feels like he’s done something right. By his men and himself. 

He looks at Dameron then, with his mouth set firm, and thanks the Stars that this man pulled him from the Steadfast practically kicking and screaming as he was. 

He swallows and inclines his head, “Yes, and,” He licks his lips, which are suddenly dry, ”Thank you - for, everything.” It comes out quiet and clumsy, but he means it. He hopes Dameron can hear the sincerity. 

Dameron blinks, surprised, and then smiles, his eyes soft. “Couldn’t have done it without you, buddy.” Hux tentatively begins to return the smile when Dameron has to ruin everything by continuing obnoxiously, “Of course, you won't be saying that later, when I’m a dozen beers deep and I’ve managed to rally the whole base into singing!” He practically cackles. 

Hux frowns, “Earlier you made it seem like that would happen anyway, without your encouragement.” 

Dameron raises an eyebrow, smirks and says, “Yeah, well, sometimes all people need is a little push.” 

Hux scowls, “Well, you won’t be getting me involved!” 

Dameron just laughs, puts a drink in his hand, and leads him to a table. 

“Funny, that’s what everybody said.” 

They sit across from each other, amidst the crowd. Hux wonders briefly if he too blends in with the rebels, dressed as he is in their casual clothes and earth tones. He doesn't have long to mull it over, in any case, as Dameron begins to talk at him incessantly.

He has to deflect every single inane thought that comes to Dameron’s mind. The man is happy to bring up countless topics of conversation, and happier still when he manages to get a sentence or two from Hux in return.

Eventually, Dameron is asking him about TIE fighters and Hux is forced to admit he isn’t particularly knowledgeable about light starcraft. Apparently, Dameron has latched onto the thought of learning more about TIEs, as he asks him to point out a pilot of the Order; insisting that he needs to pick their brains regarding the capabilities of the starfighters. How he has a reputation to maintain. 

“The best pilot in the galaxy never passes up a learning opportunity, and if I can convince them to let me take their TIE for a spin, well, then that’s just a bonus.” Hux doesn't bother reminding Dameron that he’s a general here, and that if he wanted to take a TIE, Hux’s men couldn’t stop him. 

Instead, Hux scans the crowd, and locates the face of the pilot he recognises as the one who’d commandeered an Upsilon-class transport vessel from the hangar of the Steadfast. She and a co-pilot managed to maneuver the large shuttle through the gunfire with relative ease, and, with the help of a squad of renegade TIEs, had successfully ferried a dozen of his men to safety in the belly of the craft. 

He surmises the woman must be an experienced pilot to have chosen such an unwieldy ship to abscond in, given the situation, and to have been able to avoid being destroyed by either side in the confusion. 

He doesn’t remember being told her code, and wonders if she’s adopted a name by now. 

He points her out. “Her, there, she’s a pilot. If she’s uninterested in talking about flying TIEs she should still be able to find you someone who will be.” Dameron looks over eagerly.

“Ha! I’ve never met a pilot who isn’t interested in talking about flying, Hugs, so don’t you worry.” Dameron gets to his feet, “Awesome, hey, will you be alright if I leave you here? I mean you can come along, if you-”

“No. I’ll be fine. Now, go.” Hux cuts him off, irritated by Dameron’s coddling. 

Dameron hesitates for a moment before nodding and walking off in the direction of the pilot, weaving his way through the crowd. When he reaches her and begins to talk she visibly stiffens, wary, before her eyes find Hux’s across the duracrete. He inclines his head to her and she gives him a hesitant smile in response. Looking back to Dameron she begins talking, quickly becoming more animated. 

Hux tries and fails to suppress a small smile, suddenly Dameron is looking over his shoulder and giving him a grin and a thumbs up; he feels himself start to blush, embarrassed to have been caught watching them. 

He tears his gaze away and looks around at the rest of the crowd, and quickly realises he’s being watched himself. 

Rose Tico is sitting at a table diagonally across the duracrete from him, watching him impassively. Ignorant to the conversation going on around her. He holds her gaze and raises an eyebrow, can sense she wants to talk, so he gestures to the now empty chair in front of himself. 

She tips up her chin, surprised, and abandons the people she was sitting with to settle into the seat opposite; she then simply continues to watch him, silent. 

Hux waits for a moment, but then is forced to prompt her with a, “Well?” 

She needs no further prompting. “I was just wondering how long you were planning on staying here.”

He can’t help but tease, “Ah, do you need the table?” He says while reaching out to grasp the drink Dameron had given him, shifting his weight forward as if he was about to stand.

She isn’t amused, “You know what I mean. Here, on base.”

Hux leans back, lets go of the bottle, wonders if he should tell her that he hadn’t given it much thought. 

That would be a lie. 

Until this evening he’d assumed he would have met great resistance if he’d tried to take command of a shipful of his men, but even then had still been considering it. 

Had mulled over his escape, how they could take the Upsilon craft, which at this very moment sits remarkably unscathed amongst the rebel ships in one of the clearings serving as a hangar. Still operational, fuelled, and equipped with a hyperdrive. He could create a distraction, sabotage a ship or generator, cause an explosion; and in the confusion, usher a dozen or so of his men aboard that ship, take off, and warp to hyperspace. 

He could hail a Star Destroyer, converge with the ship, and take over command as Supreme Leader. Tell his comrades to muster to his side, to rejoice over how they’d had the opportunity to purge themselves of Sith influence. How he even knew the location of the last of the Resistance. 

How they could finally end this blasted war. 

He had told himself that it was too risky, the rebels wouldn’t be so foolish as to have not sabotaged the ship in some way, predicting how he would attempt his escape in the best of the First Order starships available here. Would watch them leave the atmosphere and laugh as they are torn to pieces attempting to take to lightspeed with a crippled hyperdrive.

But he now knows the Resistance truly has the worst sense of self-preservation, that they would apparently let him leave freely, take his men and blow their planet to pieces.

He could do it, he knows it would be almost laughably easy, but he finds that the will in him to do so is lacking. 

He had just been using the presumed futility of an escape attempt as an excuse not to try. 

His eyes slide back over the crowd, drawn to where Dameron and the pilot are now seated, engaged in a heated conversation. Three others have joined them, he recognises one as another of his own pilots, the others as Dameron’s. They have managed to procure a datapad from somewhere, all crowding around the table, looking at the display. Most likely going over some schematic of a starfighter and it’s complex controls. Dameron gestures, says something Hux can’t hear, and all the group laugh, his pilots, and the rebels. 

They almost look like a group of old friends, and Hux’s heart aches. 

“Oh,” Tico is looking into his face with an expression he can’t parse, “I see.” 

He looks at her, “What’s that?” Unsure of what she’s noticed. 

Tico leans forward, holding his eye, “You don’t want to go, you’re going to stay.” 

Hux jerks as if struck, “I don’t belong here.” He hisses, shakes his head, “I have no reason to stay.” 

“You’ve heard that we’ve extended an offer of amnesty, right?” He nods, “Well, don’t you think that it’d help us to have someone here who knows the Order inside and out?” She explains, “Someone who has been there, someone who knows how to negotiate with them?” 

“I’m no negotiator.” 

“No,” She laughs, “You’re definitely not, but, for some reason you have their trust. Enough that the people who followed you here turned on everything they’d been taught, just on their faith in your word.” 

Hux closes his eyes, he can't let this go on.

“I fired Starkiller.” 

The statement silences her, and he still can't look her in the eye, “If you hadn’t given the order would that weapon never have been fired?” 

He opens his eyes at that, and she’s staring back at him with a cautious expression, waiting for an answer, “Starkiller was scheduled to fire upon the seat of the New Republic from the day it was first proposed. We build our weapons with the intent for them to be used, irrespective of command.” He admits, slowly, it seems like a technicality, “However, as I-” 

She interrupts him, voice thick, “Then you can’t shoulder the blame all by yourself.” He can tell this is hard for her, and he wonders why she’s even bothering to try. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, “There will be those who disagree. Who will want to see me punished.” 

She sighs, leaning back into the seat, looks off to the side, pensive. 

“I didn’t get it at first, you know, what Poe was up to. He was the one who proposed amnesty for you guys, and Finn was on board right away. Everyone else thought it was a crazy idea, but they’re the bosses now so, y’know.” She gestures flippantly, “A few days after Exegol they were literally running back and forth between people, pairing up First Order and Resistance, finding common ground, just getting them talking.” She gives a laugh, reminiscing, ”About stupid stuff like pod races and the weather, the fauna here on Ajan Kloss, anything; and the craziest thing is it worked, people were starting to get along.” 

She picks at a nail and looks distant, “I was so mad those first few days, I thought it just wasn’t fair how we were treating you guys like you weren’t our enemy, like how you treated us.” Her hands clasp together on the table, she looks anywhere but at Hux, and he is greatly confused to see she looks almost guilty. 

After a moment she continues, “I was worried we were making a mistake, but then Poe told me something that I’ll never forget.” 

She looks him in the eye and he can almost feel her determination, he is frozen in place. 

“If we punish our enemies when they turn to us for help, then we can’t call ourselves the good guys,” She repeats his words, like a vow, ”And this war will _never_ end.” 

Hux is dumbstruck, the comprehension of the true degree of mercy they are so freely offering him and his people is frankly overwhelming. She simply waits in silence, watching him process. 

The wind picks up, bringing with it the smell of night blooming flowers, he can feel his hair as it tickles his forehead, can feel the sweat on his palms, but the chatter of the crowd seems incredibly far away. 

Suddenly, a glass bottle is placed down in front of him with a clink and he jumps, the spell broken, looking up in open surprise. 

“You playing nice, Rose?” It’s Finn, the traitor. No, the Resistance general, he amends.

He’s currently handing Tico her own bottle with a knowing smile. 

“I dunno, I’m a little worried I might have broken him.” She teases quietly, taking a sip. 

“Hm,” Finn sits down next to her and he looks Hux over, his head tilted just so, “Just looks like a bit of culture shock to me.” 

“Yes. Culture shock.” He mutters, just to say _something_ , and takes the newest bottle, ignoring the old one, which has probably warmed by now. Enjoys the feel of the cool glass against his fingers, even takes a tentative mouthful. 

It’s bitter and floral at the same time, unlike anything he’s had before, but after some consideration he thinks he might like it. 

“So,” Hux clears his throat, after a minute or so passes, “Ajan Kloss is quite beautiful.” 

Rose laughs heartily, and places her bottle on the table, “Yeah,” She grins at him, and he smiles shyly in return, “It’s got some great fauna.” 

They talk, and as the evening wears on, Hux finds himself delivering dry remarks that have Tico and Finn laughing in surprise. His ears feel flushed, there’s a buzz under his skin and he realises that after drinking both bottles, that he’s let himself get somewhat drunk, which is twice as drunk as he usually allows. 

He also realises that he’s suddenly incredibly tired, exhausted even, and decides to retreat to bed before he can embarrass himself- or at least any further. 

He bids farewell to Tico and Finn, thanking them for the pleasant conversation; they both tell him the same, which has him smiling, despite himself. 

As he makes his way through the crowd, he can feel eyes following him. Dameron is watching from where he sits, alert, with a question in his eyes, like he might come over and ask if something’s wrong. Hux doesn’t want to have to talk to Dameron with this strange feeling in his blood. So he shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand, flashing a quick smile to appease the man, before continuing on. 

Dameron cocks his head with a small frown, but allows him to leave. 

♢

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Poe, typical extrovert. Drags you to a party and then ditches! It's almost like they want you to talk to other people and make new friends, gross.
> 
> Half of somewhat drunk is a smidge. 
> 
> When Poe said he was going to go try to get Hux to join the party, BB8 entered wingman mode and literally broke into his room because he knew that if he didn't, Hux would have probably just covered his ears and pretended he couldn't hear Poe knocking.


	2. The Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage Hux experiences an epiphany, and learns what has been going on in the rest of the galaxy while he was moping around on the base waiting to be executed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks, introspection, exposition - exciting stuff.
> 
> This one's fluff sandwiched between angst.
> 
> Felt like I needed to make Ajan Kloss a little more… Basic.
> 
> This chapter has been edited since it was first posted!

♢

We’ll be unstoppable

Don’t know what I did it for

I needed to know that it was always real

♢

That night, Hux lies awake, sobered, aware that he is on the cusp of something. 

It feels surprisingly similar to when he had lain awake the night-cycle before he was scheduled to disembark the Finalizer for Starkiller Base. Kept alert by some overwhelming feeling that this moment of stillness precedes a great change in the direction of his life. 

The circumstances could not be more disparate, but he is still drawn to the similarity in the feeling itself. It’s as if he is standing on the precipice of a great cliff, anticipating taking that final step into the chaos of the sea below. 

He hadn’t expected to survive Exegol, hadn’t thought he’d have a life at all after betraying the Order. 

Hanging over that cursed planet he’d urged the Steadfast to rid itself of the old Imperial influence, had encouraged a mutiny.

The reaction was immediate, TIEs were firing upon TIEs, the gunners of the Steadfast’s cannons taking shots into the Sith fleet, he could only assume at the chaos going on inside the ship. 

He’d been astonished by the reaction, had expected to be simply shot out of the sky the moment he delivered his message. 

Dameron had laughed, delighted, over the comms, _“You did it, Hux! They’re turning on each other! Would you look at that!”_ As if he could look anywhere else, watching what his desperate plea had done to the Order. 

Wishing he could see the expression on Pryde's wizened old face. 

Quickly, he had realised he needed to call those who’d turned to his side to retreat from the ship, he knew they were never going to be able to take the Steadfast. He hadn’t been expecting such a reaction, but with the apparent numbers they had it could be possible for at least some to escape the ship. 

He’d sent out a second command, to head to the hangars, and escape. 

To assist the rebels, and blow the Steadfast right out of the pfassking sky. 

From the destruction, only a handful of his men had emerged alive. Those who’d listened to his command to abandon the First Order for the Resistance, rather than lay down their lives for it. 

Just as he had. 

_Pathetic cowards._ His father would have sneered, _To die for the First Order is an honour. You should hope to die for it, boy, then your life would have finally been worth something._

Hux leaves his bed for the refresher, unhappy with where his mind is wandering. 

He’s immensely thankful that his room is equipped with one, and that the space is his alone. 

Several shipments of prefabricated modular buildings had been delivered to the base five days after Exegol. An enormous area of jungle had been cleared, just outside of the largest opening of the cave system, which, till then, had served as the lone shelter available on base. 

It had taken the rebels but a day to construct their new base, the cellular buildings only needing to be fastened together. Wired, plumbed and furnished by the afternoon of the following day. 

He’d watched them, fascinated, it was the most disorganised he’d ever seen a building site; there seemed to be no thought given to the delegation of tasks, and yet, they had completed the project with commendable efficiency. 

Their base now actually somewhat hospitable; sporting a medcenter, a few offices, and several sprawling lengths of sleeping quarters, stretching out into the jungle. 

The single largest addition had been the mess hall; a solitary structure pressed right up against the rising ridge to the mouth of the cave system, facing out to the rest of the buildings across a freshly laid duracrete courtyard. 

He’d been astonished to learn that every room in the sleeping quarters had been built to accommodate but a single occupant, equipped with a desk and a personal refresher. 

Truly, the level of luxury they afford to even the lowliest rank here never ceases to amaze. 

The day the construction was finished Dameron’s little droid had rolled to a stop at his feet and let out a shockingly loud whirr. Apparently calling to it’s master, as Dameron had come running, waving, _“There you are, c’mon, this way!”_ He’d taken Hux by the shoulder _, was always touching him,_ and steered him in the direction of the new buildings. 

Dameron explained they were receiving more support than ever since the destruction of the Sith fleet. Explained that parties, which until then had remained disinterested, were suddenly offering to help the Resistance; how they were now practically overwhelmed with resources. 

Hux had mused to himself that, upon hearing that one side of the war had violently turned upon itself over that cursed planet, those neutral parties realised they’d probably be better off actually supporting the people they would prefer to see in power. 

Military powers capable of violently cannibalising themselves do not good juntas make. 

_“Hugs, you’re gonna love it! You got a great room, comes with a ‘fresher, there’s a lovely view, and, best of all, it’s just for you!”_ Dameron had rambled, leading him down a long hallway, _“There’s even a bed! And, although I’ve heard you sleep standing up, I highly recommend you give it a try lying down. Trust me, it’s a real game-changer.”_

Hux had scoweled and gone quite red in the face, but was too tired to think of something to say. 

The previous sleeping arrangements had been less than ideal. 

A simple cot on offer out in the open air of a literal cave was not his idea of tempting. And so, he’d decided to simply forgo sleep, but, after Exegol, the exhaustion had caught up to him quickly. 

Rose Tico had come upon him two days prior, standing at parade rest by one of the cave entrances, chin tucked into his chest, fast asleep. 

He’d woken when he sensed her come closer, but she hadn’t been fooled. She’d looked up at him in unrestrained disbelief, _“You are so strange.”_ She’s said, before immediately turning and walking off. Apparently to spread a rumour that he only sleeps standing up. 

That was the first time she’d addressed him directly since their altercation aboard the Supremacy. 

He feels he can’t take umbrage with her for spreading a harmless, if embarrassing rumour, as he did try to have her killed, many times in fact. 

That sentiment had followed him through most of his interactions at the base, well aware that these people are treating him with a degree of kindness that he doesn’t deserve. A degree of kindness which, if their positions were reversed, they wouldn’t even be alive to receive. 

Presently, he finishes drying his hands. Standing there at the sink of the refresher, he sneaks a look at himself in the mirror upon the wall; taking in the changes that he’s been unwilling to acknowledge. 

There’s a stranger staring back. Soft-haired and meek looking, in a pale blue nightshirt with a wide collar. The sort of man he’d have dismissed as a physical non-threat back in his academy days. Rail thin and fine boned, the collar of the shirt has come loose, sliding low on his sloping shoulders, freely exposing the sharp jut of his collarbones. 

He raises a hand to his face, tracing the hollow of his cheek. He’s always been thin, but the stress of life aboard the Steadfast as a spy had dampened his already meagre appetite. 

And it certainly hadn’t recovered during the week he’d spent waiting for his execution. 

An execution that would apparently never come. 

When he tilts his head slightly, to get a better look at his gaunt face, he can feel his fringe brush against the side of his forehead, a sensation that is ever so slowly becoming familiar. 

He had begun to fret when he’d first realised that the base’s supply of toiletries didn’t include pomade, but had soon remembered there was no one here actually expecting him to uphold the First Order’s standards. 

Dameron had graced him with a shameless double-take the first day he’d gone without, and said, _“Huh, your hair’s a lot lighter shade without all that goop.”_ Hux had ignored him at the time, unwilling to engage the man in conversation, least of all about his hair. 

But he was right, in fact, his hair almost seemed to get paler as the days went by. He presumes the exposure to unfiltered sunlight had some effect, but he isn’t about to bring these findings to Dameron. As if the man’s comment had actually got him thinking about the colour of his hair. 

In any case, it’s here, looking upon this uncanny version of himself, that he realises why he has been so drawn into this contemplation over his appearance. 

It hits him that, without the pomade slicking his hair, without the stiff neckline reminding him to hold his head high, without the clever cut of his dark uniform bulking him out, without the sneer or the hardened eyes - He looks absolutely nothing at all like his father. 

A secret thrill runs through him at the thought. As a child he’d always assumed, dreaded even, that one day, when he was older, he’d happen to catch sight of his reflection and only be able to see the ghost of his father staring back. 

He had never seen his father’s hair without pomade, it had always been plastered back; a deep copper, stained almost black with product. His nose short and wide, his cheeks always remained full regardless of the state of his waistline, his face round, chin short. 

_I look nothing like my father._

_But, then, does that mean?_

He hasn’t thought of her in a long time. 

He scrutinises the planes of his face under a new eye, desperate, like what he finds there could fill some dark place in his soul. Contrasts his features to those of his father, and, where they differ, tries to construct some mental image of his mother. 

He can’t remember her face, but is she here? In the slope of his brow, the line of his nose, the ridge of his cheeks, here, right in front of him? 

He notes with joy that even his eyes are different from those of his father, perhaps not in shape, but in colour. His father’s had certainly never looked back into his own and expressed anything but contempt or anger. 

_Thank you,_ he thinks, relieved beyond words _. Thank you, mother._

As he walks back from the refresher to his bed, he can hear muffled noise coming from outside. Song, resonating like the thrum of an engine. He opens the window, to hear more clearly. 

Dameron apparently really _has_ got the whole base singing. 

He’s unfamiliar with the tune, but it reminds him of some outer-rim folk songs he’s heard snippets of before; when reviewing holos taken from within drinking establishments on nowhere planets. 

It’s made more of a chant than a song by the sheer number of singers, but somewhere in the middle of the voices they create a pleasantly harmonious core. The talent of each individual singer rendered irrelevant, each voice bolstered by the collective. 

He walks back to his bed, leaving the window ajar. The song washing over him as he sinks down under the covers. He falls straight into a deep sleep, deeper than he’s known for a long time. 

It’s unusual for him to dream, or at least for him to remember it upon waking; but that night, the visions are incredibly vivid, and once he wakes, he thinks they may just stay with him forever. 

He dreams of sheets of pouring rain, the feeling of tall grasses brushing against his hands, the taste of bitter berries, of Arkanis, and of his mother. 

And of her voice, calling out to him from across a windswept field:

_Armitage._

♢

Poe wakes early the next day, with a dry mouth and a mild headache; but it’s nothing a little water and some tablets can’t fix, so he rolls out of bed with a groan. Heading to the ‘fresher for a shower. The water is incredibly refreshing, and he’s once again thankful that they built their base on such a hospitable planet. 

He never wants to settle for a sonic ever again, if he can help it. 

Once he’s finished, clean and perked up, he dries himself quickly; pulling on some clothes as he walks back through to the bedroom, smoothing out the creases of his beige shirt idly. 

As he’s padding past where BB8 sits in his dock, the droid's motion sensors bring him out of recharge, and he wakes with a grumbling whirr. Poe grabs his boots from the foot of his bed, "Sorry, buddy, I'm just heading over to the mess. I need a caf." He says with a yawn, "Feel free to go back on charge." 

BB8 makes no sound in response, Poe turns to peer down at him. He's already back in hibernation mode. Poe stifles his laugh and slips on his boots, fastening them loosely, eager to get some breakfast. 

The courtyard outside of the mess is, well, _a mess._

Poe groans at the sight, before he remembers that he’s the boss and can just delegate cleanup to some other sucker. He feels guilty for thinking that, so grabs a handful of empty bottles on his way over to the building. 

He raises the shutter and walks across the hall to the back, through a door and into the kitchen, where he deposits the bottles in the recycler. 

The catering droid should already be active by now, but the kitchen is silent. He turns and glances around for it.

The droid is standing, offline, by the side of the door. “The kriff?” Poe says aloud, walking over and inspecting it, hoping it isn’t fried. He soon realises that some prankster has set it into a manual power off, rendering the droid incapable of waking itself to prepare breakfast for the base. 

_What kind of idiot would do that,_ Poe thinks, flicking a switch on the back of the droid, _I’m sure they’ll be just as hungry as me this morning._

Poe will just have to rustle something up himself, while the droid recalibrates. 

He heads over to the conservator, opening the door and peering in, scratching at his stubble. He forgot to shave again. 

The unmistakable sound of BB8 rolling along has him lifting his head back out, looking over the conservator door, anticipating the droids arrival. It must be something important if BB8’s willingly left his recharge this early. 

It’s Hux who comes walking in from the hall, however, BB8 apparently heading straight back to their room after leading him here. 

Hux’s expression is dour, and Poe is immediately tense, turning from the conservator. Letting the door swing closed behind him. 

_Had he hated the party that much?_ He’d thought they’d made some great progress yesterday, he’d finally managed to get Hux to socialise; he’d even willingly taken Poe’s hand, something Finn had previously told him was practically unheard of in the First Order. 

He’s even beginning to look a little bit healthier, after two nights sleeping in a real bed. Which Poe suspects are the only night’s sleep he’d had on base at all. 

At the celebration, Poe had seen him talking with Rose and Finn, but he’d thought they knew the drill. It’d looked like they were getting along well enough, but- had they been raking him over the coals while Poe was busy talking to the other pilots? 

He shouldn’t have left him alone so soon, but Poe’d had his head stuck in the cockpit again; now the greatest asset toward their goal of the real demilitarisation of the First Order could be about to leave the base. 

They needed Hux on their side in this, but if he wants to leave now, Poe will have to let him go. 

He’s a man of his word. 

Hux strides over to him, looking miserable, and a little rumpled; his clothes creased, his hair in disarray, like he rolled right out of bed and came straight here. 

The sight of it, Hux looking so- _dishevelled,_ only makes Poe even more nervous. 

He waits for Hux to speak, trying to come up with things he could say that might convince him to remain on the base. 

“I’m staying.” Hux says, raising his chin, “I’m going to help. In whatever way I’m able.” 

Poe’s mouth falls open, shocked to silence. 

He watches as Hux falters, suddenly looking doubtful, “But- I need you to tell me how, years from now, we won’t just end up in the same position as before?” His voice low, almost pained. 

_Oh, that’s easy._

“We won’t.” Poe vows. 

Hux isn’t convinced, pressing, “How can you know?” 

Poe just holds out his hand, grinning, knowing Hux will take it. 

After a beat, he does, with a single raised eyebrow, which then turns to two when Poe steps closer; bringing their clasped hands up into the air between their chests. 

“Because, together, Hux, you and me?” Poe says, deadly serious, ”We’re not gonna let it.” 

Hux takes in a soft breath, his eyes darting between Poe’s own, and says: 

“Armitage.” 

This time it’s Poe who falters, “Huh?” 

“My name, it’s Armitage.” 

Poe can’t hold back the wide smile, nor wants to.

“Hello, Armitage, you can call me Poe.” He says, earnestly, and _Armitage_ just rolls his eyes. 

“Well, _Poe,”_ His stomach does a little flip, _that accent!_ “Are you going to let go at some point?” 

And Poe realises it maybe is a little strange he hasn't let go of Armitage's hand already. 

Releasing it hastily, he steps back with a laugh, and clears his throat; deciding to change the subject, “You, ah, want some breakfast? The catering droid needs some time to boot, but I can rustle us something up no problem. I make a mean pancake, you like pancakes?” 

Armitage just shrugs, looking away, running a thumb over the palm of his freed hand, “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had one.” 

“Oh, man,” Poe wipes a hand across his face before he takes a look around, springing into action, rifling through the cupboards, “You are about to experience the first moment of the rest of your life!” 

Poe quickly finds all the stuff he needs, including cutlery, the droid has the place nicely organised. Although the kitchen _has_ only been in use for two days. Maybe it’ll be a different story after a week or so. 

He drags one of the tall stools he spots stacked in the corner over to the durasteel counter, beside Armitage. “Take a seat,” He says, moving to the opposite side of the counter, where he starts mixing the ingredients, “You'll wanna be sitting down for this demonstration of perfect pancake flipping technique!” 

Armitage perches on the stool, watching him mutely, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Once he’s got the pan hot, he runs some bantha butter over the surface, then pours in a dollop of the batter, rotating the pan to spread it around. He glances up toward Armitage and finds that he’s watching closely, his expression serious. 

He’s struck with the realisation that he’s literally giving General Hux of the First Order a cookery lesson, and that the man is _actually_ watching him with rapt attention. 

It's a very strange feeling, and Poe tries and fails to get over it. 

Luckily, the pancake is ready to be flipped, drawing him out of his head, “Check it out.” He says, and tips the pan forwards before flipping the pancake up into the air and catching it again, “Aha!” He shouts, grinning at Armitage’s mildly impressed look, “It doesn’t always go that well!” 

He slides the pancake onto a plate, once it’s ready; splashes on some roonan lemon juice and a sprinkle of sugar, then places it on the counter in front of Armitage. 

Who just looks down at it silently, his face inscruitible. 

“Mm-hm, that’s one good-looking pancake, if I do say so myself.” He says, as he leans an elbow onto the counter. 

He watches Armitage hesitate before picking up the knife and fork, looking up at Poe with a wary expression. Poe motions with his hand, “Go on, it’s not gonna bite back.” 

He wonders if the hesitancy is born of Armitage being unused to trying unfamiliar food, or if he thinks Poe has poisoned it somehow, despite the fact he was watching the entire time. 

Poe decides it couldn’t hurt to reach over with a fork and cut a piece for himself, to prove it isn’t poisoned or whatever, also, he’s pretty hungry. He pops it into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, swallowing before saying, “Yep. That’s a pancake alright.” 

The piece Armitage proceeds to cut is barely a mouthful, and Poe feels on edge to hear what he thinks of it. 

The suspense is actually killing him, _eat the blasted pancake already!_

The fork rises to plush lips, then disappears, and Poe holds his breath. 

As Armitage chews, his eyebrows pinch in close, and then rise into an appreciative expression. 

“Well,” Armitage finally says, licking his lips, and Poe leans forwards in anticipation, “I like pancakes.”

Poe leans back with a laugh, “Everyone likes pancakes! But if you think they’re good like this then you’d love ‘em with a bit of muja sauce-”

Suddenly, there’s a sweaty man sneaking in through the kitchen door, looking incredibly hungover and also incredibly guilty. 

Poe stands abruptly, realising who this could be, pointing an accusatory finger, “You!” The man flinches harshly and freezes, “Did you mess with the catering droid?”

He looks stricken, “Sir! It was- I only- I meant to turn it back on, but I-”

“Zip it!” Poe snaps, cutting through the air with his hand, “You could’ve caused us to end up with an entire base full of hungry, angry, hungover people, if I wasn’t such an early riser!” Poe quickly realises he can kill two birds with one stone here, “When I leave this kitchen, I better see that every one of those bottles lying around outside has been cleaned up, you hear me?” 

The prankster glances between Poe and Armitage desperately, almost like he’s hoping Armitage will speak up on his behalf. It’s almost laughable to see. _Yeah right, keep dreaming, pal,_ Poe thinks. 

After realising he’s not getting out of his punishment, he slinks silently from the room, defeated. 

Poe turns back to Armitage to find he’s looking up at him incredulously, eyebrow quirked, “That’s the first time I’ve witnessed you seriously reprimand someone and it’s over a catering droid.” 

Poe leans back down to the counter, and spears another small piece of pancake with his fork, “If there’s one thing in my life I hold sacred, Armitage,” He takes the bite, chews and swallows, “It’s breakfast.”

Armitage lets out a little puff of air from his nose with a small smile, which is as close to laughter as Poe suspects he may be capable, so he considers it a win. 

♢

Armitage thinks he’s probably eaten more in this one morning than he has all week combined. The pancakes were admittedly delicious, and much better than any breakfast he’d ever had before, practically a dessert with how sweet they were. 

Poe had kept making them until he’d used all the batter, sliding them onto the plate, insisting he eat his fill, even placing them on top of one-another. 

Apparently pancakes are _supposed_ to be eaten in tall stacks, or so Poe said, which Armitage finds bizarre as it's only possible to make one at once. He tells Poe as much and watches him pause, in the middle of cleaning the pan, which he then looks down at, “You’re right, that doesn’t make sense.” 

Armitage nods, he’s feeling energised, and decides now is as good a time as ever. 

“Do you have any information to share with me regarding the state of the rest of the Order’s fleet?” 

He watches Poe’s back as he laughs, “Straight to business, huh?” He leans the pan up to dry, wiping down his hands on a towel, “Yeah, there’s- lots actually. I’ll send it over to your datapad.” He turns to face Armitage, chewing his lip, “You might, ah- want to go over it in private.” He finishes softly. 

And Armitage’s heart sinks. 

Later that day, sitting at his desk, datapad in hand, Armitage learns that the speech he’d delivered to the Steadfast over Exegol had been broadcast to the rest of the entire fleet. 

As it was the ship carrying the Supreme Leader, the Steadfast had been capable of overriding all other ships' internal communication systems. Someone manning the comms had recorded his command and sent it on through. 

He suspects it may have been Markis Quinn, high-level comms officer and the proud nephew of Domaric Quinn. The general who was killed aboard that very ship, for daring to question the legitimacy of a promise of power too absolute to possibly come without great cost. 

Regardless of who it was, his speech was sent resonating throughout the galaxy, apparently leading to the collapse of the ranks everywhere it touched. 

The last command of General Hux, completely destroying the Order from within. 

The reports indicate that the ships commanded by the oldest, most distinguished generals had fallen first. Relics of the Empire. 

Their crew clearly more than eager to revolt against the people who had kept them in their place with an iron fist, while they themselves lived lavishly, making a mockery of the standards of the Order. Waiting for the day their Emperor returned to his throne, and rewarded them for their many years of loyalty with positions of even greater power and avarice. 

There were reports of Star Destroyers simply left hanging in space, so short of hands they’d become deathtraps; their life support systems failing without the technicians to maintain them, the crew abandoning ship in droves. 

The additional reports of shuttles being destroyed by the very ship they had launched from has him wondering if any had managed to escape alive at all. 

He hopes the stubborn old bastards in charge remained aboard until the very air putrefied around them, choking on their pride, too obstinate to cut their losses on a ship they’d called home for so long. 

The rest of the fleet fell into chaos soon after the first few ships were abandoned. 

Reading over the reports of Star Destroyers suddenly raining hellfire down upon each other, he can imagine that the generals would have hailed other ships, questioning their status. If they’d discovered the mutiny out of control, a ship on the brink of a shift in power, they would begin a volley. 

The Order's ruthlessness turned upon itself. 

It would have been considered too dangerous to allow the defectors to seize control of a Star Destroyer. 

But the doubters, aboard their own ship. Not yet pushed to the edge, seeing how easily their own general commands them to forsake the lives of their comrades - both defectors and Imperial loyalists alike- would have been practically led by the hand into joining in on the mutiny. 

And so, here lies the reports: two Star Destroyers, tearing each other apart, from within and without. 

Left reduced to nothing, but matching pairs of burned-out husks.

The same situation being observed, time and time again, across the galaxy. 

All too aware of this innate ruthlessness, other mutineers had apparently taken more drastic, desperate measures. Reports of ships going into meltdown, cracked clear to pieces by the immense heat. Their reactors sabotaged by what must be entire squads of technicians working in tandem, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, to prevent the Order continuing along its path. 

Armitage finally has to tear his eyes from the display, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the destruction triggered by his own command. There’s still more reports to go over, a week's worth of incredible violence he was utterly in ignorance of. 

It shouldn’t have been possible, insurrection was usually met with extreme prejudice, quickly snuffed out and concealed. 

But his message had been broadcast to the entire fleet; heard by the entire ship, entire bases full of people hearing all at once, from General Hux himself, that he was working with the rebels. 

That he wanted them to join him on the side of the Resistance. 

Impossible to deny. Impossible to conceal. Impossible to ignore. 

He hadn’t realised how many of his people must have already been feeling like they were on the wrong side of the war, more than he ever could have imagined. Willing to risk their lives to escape, willing to _sacrifice their lives_ to prevent their own side from doing any more harm. 

All his life he had been an instrument, just a cog in a machine, placed there by his father, working only to satisfy the selfish desires of an insane Sith Emperor. He’d gone on to place people into the machine himself, had reasoned away that it was just the way of war. 

But, the things he’d sacrificed, both his to give and those not, were all for nothing. Left utterly without significance, thrown into the great yawning pit that was Palpatine’s Order.

An unyielding machine fuelled on blood and lives, always in want of more. 

More power, more weapons, more _sacrifices_.

There’s a hot curl of shame, of dawning horror, worming its way through his core. 

He moves to lie on his bed, breath coming out in quick little puffs, his head swimming. 

He’d been living a lie. They all were. Every single member of the Order willing to defect upon his command had been living a terrible lie. 

Telling themselves to just endure, endure just a little longer and then we will be at peace. That there had been no turning from their path. 

But the path they were on was not that of peace, but subjugation. To create a galaxy full of people too fearful to cry out, and call it peace. 

The fleet itself a microcosm proving that very fact. Ships full of people too cowed, too terrified of reconditioning or termination to speak up against the injustices going on around them. 

That they themselves were committing, that they themselves were contributing towards. 

But what could they have done, there had been no way to leave the Order alive. 

They could only _endure_.

If his own people weren't at peace under the Order, if _he himself_ wasn’t ever at peace - then why the kriff did he think the entire galaxy could ever have been? 

When he’d agreed to help the rebels, he’d been anticipating great resistance from the rest of the fleet. Anticipated ships full of Imperial sympathisers sneering down at him for working with scum, refusing to accept the open hand of the Resistance. 

Refusing to move forward toward real peace, refusing to let go of the past. 

But, if the rest of the reports carry on like this, he suspects it may just be as easy as it has been here on the base. As easy as it has been for the defectors from the Steadfast, enjoying their freedom among the rebels, as he had seen them yesterday. 

As easy as it had been between him and Poe that very morning. 

He wants all his comrades to have the opportunity to experience this, more than anything. For them to know not everything in the universe is always so cruel, cold and rigid. 

That it is possible for them to have a life outside of their service to the Order. That they do still have a choice, and that they can choose peace, with the Resistance. 

A glimmer of hope for the future of his people comes to life deep inside, smothering the horror of his actions, of his utterly dark and meaningless life. It’s a delicate thing, one he isn’t sure will be enough to see him through these strange times. 

Where he lives among his enemies, and they treat him as a friend. 

Where he is never sure where he stands, or who he is. 

He’d burned his old life, the life thrust upon him, the life that had given him nothing in return for all his pain, all his blood. 

He’d burned it over Exegol, expecting to be consumed along with it, for it was all he had. 

But the rebels, the Resistance, have given him another chance. 

Despite everything he has done, to them, to his people, to the entire galaxy. 

And he wonders if he’s capable of showing them that that wasn't a mistake. 

The next morning Armitage wakes feeling refreshed, clear headed, and ready to face the day ahead. He takes a quick shower, resisting the urge to stand under the real water spray for longer than he truly needs, dries and dresses.

The rebels had provided him with plenty of their hand-me-down clothing, most of which is almost comically ill-fitting. 

His uniform still sits at the bottom of the storage compartment under his bed, clean and folded tightly. For his first few days on the rebel base, he had insisted on wearing his uniform and gloves, but the muggy heat of Ajan Kloss had very quickly changed his perspective on the relative importance of keeping up appearances. 

Today, he settles on a pair of olive green cargo trousers with a cuffed hem, which settles mid-shin, and a black vest, over which he layers a tan short-sleeve shirt. He doesn’t bother buttoning it, as the shirt is both too wide and too short, he imagines it would look more ridiculous fastened closed than left open. 

He finds he rather likes the comfortable cuts of the rebel’s clothes, and the slip-on trainers they provided him with are so much less of a pain to get on and off than his boots. Although, he does miss the ritual of shining the leather back to perfection after a day collecting dirt. 

He sits at his desk to continue where he left off, running a hand through his hair to relieve the tickle on his forehead. He’s only been reading for a short while when his door wooshes open, once again accompanied by whirrs and beeps. “You again?” He says, turning to face the astromech, it's gripping a tray from the mess in it’s little servo, a bowl and mug balanced precariously atop it, apparently bringing him breakfast. 

“Been reduced to a waiter droid, have you?” He teases, the droid beeps at him sharply as he stands to take the tray, “Well, thank you, and I assume Poe put you up to this? If so, tell him thank you, too.” 

The droid beeps twice in quick succession as it rolls from the room, “But, next time, please knock!” He calls after it, knowing it’s most likely a useless endeavor. 

He settles back down at the desk, holding his datapad in one hand and a spoon in the other. He eats idly while he reads over the reports, enjoying the unusual dish. It’s some kind of assortment of grains, dried fruits and seeds in what he presumes is bantha milk. The variety in textures is an experience in itself, and the flavours are delightfully complementary. 

Before he knows it he’s finished, clearly his appetite has recovered somewhat from his unintentional weeks fast. 

He looks back over to the tray, picks up the mug sitting there, and after a cursory sniff, identifies it as caf. He takes a tentative sip, and is surprised to find that it’s actually very palatable; with the Order caf was always served black, milk considered an unnecessary luxury. He’d stuck to the tea on offer instead, as it was much less bitter. The milk takes just enough of the edge of bitterness away from the caf for him to be able to appreciate the deep flavour. 

Though he tries to savour it, just as quickly as the cereal dish, he finishes the mug of caf. Looking down upon the dregs in disappointment. 

He decides he may as well take the tray back to the mess to be cleaned, and maybe get himself another mug while he’s at it. He gathers up the empty bowl and cup and places them back on the tray, standing, pocketing his datapad. 

Heading through the hallway, across the courtyard, and into the enormous building. 

Once he’s deposited the tray to be cleared, he sits at an empty table in the mess with a new steaming mug of caf, datapad in hand, and continues to read. 

"Sir." He startles, it's the pilot of the Upsilon, standing at the opposite side of the table, "I wanted to thank you, for the opportunity you have given us." 

Armitage blinks, lowering the mug from his mouth, swallowing, before saying: "You should be thanking the rebels." 

She shakes her head, "No, sir, I would have never abandoned the Steadfast without hearing your command. I never saw it as an option. You reached out to the rebels, saw beyond our differences; you knew this was the only way for us to move forward." 

Armitage nearly chokes at that interpretation of the circumstances which led them here, he wonders if that is what all the renegades think happened. 

It's certainly a very rosy way of looking at a man in the midst of an existential crisis, determined to tear apart every facet of a life that he’d never even had in the first place. 

He looks at the pilot, she rather reminds him of Phasma, with her pale hair cropped short. He takes in her tense posture and notes she's at parade rest, "You don't have to address me as sir, anymore, you know. My name is Armitage." 

Deciding to go by his first name, his own name, the name his mother gave him, feels rather like he’s taking a knife to the influence his father still held over his life. When he and Phasma had dispatched the man he’d told himself that he was finally free; but in reality he had just stepped right into his father’s recently vacated boots. 

Had just replaced the first General Hux with a younger model. 

The pilot takes in a subtle breath, relaxes, and inclines her head, "My name is TeeDee." She says, pointing out a little sticker at her breast, where it is written out neatly in Aurebesh, "Would you like to come and- learn the rest of our names?" 

He stands immediately, locking the datapad and putting it away, "Yes. I would like that, TeeDee.” He says, and gestures with his hand, “Please, lead the way.” 

She guides him about the base, introducing him to the two dozen or so other defectors. They’re all ingrained some way into the base, working alongside a rebel or two comfortably. He introduces himself to them as Armitage, shakes their hands, and they eagerly tell him their own. 

All of the names chosen by the pilots and troopers, those not already in possession of one, are in some way derived from their codes. Armitage thinks they’re going to need to hand out lists of names when they reach out to the rest of the scattered fleet; or else they’re going to end up with enough people sharing names that it loops back around into being a code. 

He could try to get his hands on the list normally offered to the troopers and pilots who raised to a high enough rank to earn a name, but then discards the thought, the list will be limited to names favoured by the Empire. 

Surely the Resistance has access to a list of baby names, or some such, on their systems. He’ll have to ask Poe about it later. 

They eventually make their way to the clearing serving as a hangar, where TeeDee introduces him to her co-pilot from the escape from the Steadfast. 

“Arlo,” He says curtly, releasing Armitage’s hand, standing awkwardly beside the rear hull of the Upsilon, which he had been buffing with a waxed cloth. “Your speech, over Exegol, sir, it was- rousing.” He says, gruff voice thick, “Truly, it was like being woken, after years of sleep.” 

Armitage is frankly surprised to hear it, he can’t quite recall what it was he had even said.

He thanks the man for saying so, then bids the pilots goodbye, heading for his room. 

Sat upon his bed, he pulls out his datapad. At the very top of the reports was a file containing an audio clip of his speech. He’d ignored it the day before, not wanting to hear himself from that time, when he had felt so out of control, wild. 

Lashing out, like an animal finally pushed too far. 

But, if it had affected his soldiers in such a way, then surely he hadn’t come across quite as unhinged as he’d truly felt. 

He hesitates for a moment, finger hovering over the command key. Then he musters the courage, and presses play. 

His own voice washes over him, sounding profoundly cool and collected. 

♢

> _My friends, today, I ask for you to make a difficult decision; a decision which I myself struggled with greatly._
> 
> _We have given our entire lives to the service of the First Order, our entire being. We have bled, we have suffered, working to support a powerful machine. A machine that has been turned away from its purpose. Turned away from those who built it._
> 
> _Look to one another, can you or your comrades make any sense of what our goal is anymore?_
> 
> _Is this how we will achieve order, peace in the galaxy?_
> 
> _We were meant to be an improvement upon the Empire, yet here we stand, acting on the whims of that very same aged Emperor. An Emperor who has failed the galaxy before through his lust for power; for he cares for nought else, not your life, nor the lives of your brothers and sisters of the Order._
> 
> _You may ask yourself how the rebels still have the courage to fight, considering they are now so few in number. That is because I have assured them that they will have help. From you._
> 
> _I urge you to take up arms against this “Final Order”, these old Imperials, this Sith fleet. They raised us on a lie, kept us in line with false promises, perverted everything we dedicated our lives to- and I say no more._
> 
> _Rise up, and show them no mercy._

♢

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Resistance would have shown up at Exegol whether or not the First Order turned on itself, but they don’t know that! ;)
> 
> Now that our lovebirds have exchanged first names, the distribution of syllables they each say has been exactly reversed, spooky. 
> 
> Did you know there's canonically a dish called [space waffles](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Space_waffle), which are the things actually served with muja sauce. I was searching for a space-y breakfast Poe could make, but if they're just gonna call them freaking space waffles then I'm just gonna use pancakes. 
> 
> I fell down a weird research rabbit hole writing this chapter when I realised Mr Gleeson [actually doesn't have many (if any) freckles](https://images.app.goo.gl/K9tvNrg27naobASUA). Turns out while ginger hair and freckling are most commonly linked to the same gene, you can have the variant of the gene which makes you ginger without necessarily having the version which also makes you more susceptible to freckling. 
> 
> Also- “Poe, do you have a list of baby names?” “Wha- Armitage! I had no idea! Who’s the lucky guy?” 

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics at the start of each chapter are from [Unstoppable by Lianne La Havas](https://www.youtube.com/embed/HtpUCKh3cHQ), the acoustic version (aka the "solo" version, funnily enough) is just lovely. Although, frankly, this [live ](https://www.youtube.com/embed/pArdLlZwSo4)version is even better!


End file.
